I started running about six months ago, and I've almost started to enjoy it. It has helped me loose some weight and feel better about some of my less health-conscious decisions. Take last night, for instance...
We had tacos. Not itty-bitty mini-tacos, mind you. Oh, no. These were mondo tacos, piled high with meat, cheese, lettuce, onions, salsa, and rice, all stuffed into a soft shell. I had two, followed by a bowl of coffee ice cream soaked in caramel sauce. It was good, all good. For dessert: a big, fat Honduran cigar.
Let me interject that sometimes a cigar is just the thing to get my innards a'churning. More than once I've had to set the burning stogie down, duckwalk into the house, do my business, and walk out, relieved, refreshed, and ready to puff away. That did not happen last night -- it was a good cigar. However, the effects were no less potent. Only delayed.
I awoke this fine morning at 5:45 AM. I got out of bed, took a leak, got dressed, tied on my shoes, and away I went. I was about five minutes into my run (I run about four miles in thirty minutes -- I'm no speed demon) when I felt the first gurgle. "Uh oh... well... I'll be O.K."
Fool.
The minutes passed by with the miles, and I felt the pressure building as I ran. Thoughts filled my head as I sweated from exertion -- both legs and lungs as well as bung. What to do? Stop and sneak into the woods? I dunno... this feels like it's going to be sloppier than being hunkered over a branch could resolve, and I sure don't want to splash my shoes. Slow down and walk? No... that only means it will take longer to get back to home base.
Despite the pain and discomfort, I knew I had to keep running. Five minutes from home, the name of this event hit me: the Perfect Storm. Mexican food, followed by the natural laxative of the cigar, and finally running -- a nice bounce on the concrete to jiggle everything loose. I would have laughed, but I was trapped in the eye of the storm.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, please oh please give my legs speed and strength to carry me that last two hundred yards up the street.
I duckwalked into my house, huffing and puffing, sweat pouring off me. I made a beeline for the bathroom.
SON OF A-- who didn't put paper on the roll?? As I fought to untie my shorts, I bent over awkwardly and ripped open the cabinet, spilling toilet paper and the wife's feminine products all over the floor. Didn't care. Seizing my new, unsullied roll of ass fodder, I dropped trou, sat, and let 'er rip.
In the span of two seconds, I experienced three emotions.
Rage: PLOP. One little nugget hits the water. "I endured all that for THIS???"
Fear: Wait... something else is coming. It's... IT'S...
Ecstasy: At long last, it erupted from me. What emerged was at best a paste, like peanut butter coming out of a toothpaste tube. I think I actually moaned in relief as my ass turned itself inside out, shook out the cobwebs, had a cigarette, and then retreated back inside where it was warm. I snuck a look down between my legs, past the taint, and saw a brown, murky pile resting on the bottom of the bowl. That was enough for me...
I flushed (low-flow toilet: ALWAYS flush the solid material down first, then the paper). Then I used the new toilet paper liberally and managed to plug up the toilet. Plungered, flushed again, finished. I walked out, sweat still pouring off me. I felt empty, hollow inside, and I was white as a sheet. You know it was a memorable shit when the wife looks at you and means it when she says, "Are you OK?!"
-- Will E. Kerr
